


Everything I love was made of porcelain (ready to break)

by Elisexyz



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Gen, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Pre-Relationship, Sickfic, Sort Of, The Main One Here is Worry(TM), Worried Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, lots of them actually
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-03
Updated: 2020-08-03
Packaged: 2021-03-06 03:34:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,477
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25576633
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elisexyz/pseuds/Elisexyz
Summary: “Aw, Geralt! You were worried! You thought you’d tragically lose your beloved companion, and so soon!”
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 57
Kudos: 196





	Everything I love was made of porcelain (ready to break)

**Author's Note:**

> Geralt is a Worrier. He thinks he's good at hiding it, but he isn't. ~~Also, he has no idea how common illnesses work, poor man.~~  
>  Title from "Porcelain" by Sleeping at last.

For a moment, when the healer’s eyes move from Jaskier to him, narrowing slightly as she stiffens out of instinct, Geralt fears that she won’t help them.

“I can wait outside,” he’s quick to say, tightening his grip on Jaskier’s waist. The heat radiating off him is unbearable, and in spite of the uncomfortable position he seems at least half-way asleep, drooling all over his shoulder. Geralt has no idea what’s going on, no way to estimate how dangerous this is. If she turns them down—

The healer takes a breath, tightens her jaw and shakes her head. She does a decent job at collecting herself, but she still stinks of fear. “Can you pay?” she asks, tightly, her eyes inspecting Jaskier.

“Yes.”

She lets them in, instructs him on where to arrange Jaskier, and then she watches as he steps aside without being told, retreating to a corner where she can still see him but ignore him easily.

The worry clogging Geralt’s throat doesn’t leave him for a second, and even as he looks away, trying to catalogue every item in the house to distract himself, he can’t help replaying the way Jaskier just straight up collapsed down the road, can’t help wondering if there are any signs that he should have picked up on, and why the fuck didn’t Jaskier say anything anyway, the man is always fucking _talking_ , he should have _said_ something—

They are lucky there was a town nearby. Even luckier that the healer let them in. If Jaskier doesn’t die from this, he is going to wish he had, Geralt is so fucking _pissed_ —well, it’s his own fault, what was he thinking letting a human follow him around? They are fragile, they are _temporary_ , they bring nothing but pain on the long run. Especially those with a talent for making life more bearable and not an ounce of fear of Witchers in their body.

Eventually, after an infinite stretch of time, the healer moves away from Jaskier and approaches him, still keeping a safe distance.

Geralt’s heart twinges, but he swallows through it. “Well?”

“He has a cold,” she explains, her tone dismissive. “A pretty nasty one.”

That tells him—nothing.

“Do humans die from that?” he has to ask, because it’s somehow easier than asking if _that_ particular human is going to die from this.

She looks at him strangely, like she isn’t sure what to make of the question, and she shrugs. “Sometimes.”

A burst of energy goes through him, urging him to move as if under attack, his fingers twitching and his legs only barely staying in place, and something must show on his face, because she frowns, then glances at Jaskier.

In a few moments, a hint of amusement colours her face, and she says: “He’s young. And he seems healthy enough. He should be fine, just keep him hydrated, wait for the fever to go down and only worry if it doesn’t happen or it gets any worse.”

As the words finally sink in, Geralt takes a breath, some tension leaving his body and the relief probably radiating off him. He thanks the healer, pays a bit over what she asks for – she asks for very little to begin with – and then follows her directions towards the nearest inn.

Jaskier is barely half-way coherent throughout the whole ordeal, and Geralt spares a moment to worry that they will not be allowed a room – he realizes then that he’s come to rely a little too much on the possibility to step back and let Jaskier socialize in his stead, now all the more aware of how _badly_ his transactions usually go –, but thankfully the innkeeper seems to take pity on them as well, and in no time he’s dragging Jaskier upstairs.

He doesn’t put up much of a fuss when he guides him to the bed, muttering some nonsense about _manticores_ of all things – judging from his mumbling he’s thinking of kikimoras, not manticores, and Geralt comes _this_ close to pointing it out – but eventually burying his face in the pillow and drifting to sleep.

Unhappy as he is to leave him, Geralt ends up stepping out to fetch some water, remembering the healer’s words, and then he just—waits.

He isn’t sure what ‘getting any worse’ should look like, he isn’t sure what warning signs he should be on the lookout for, it’s horribly frustrating and he deeply regrets not asking the healer for clearer, detailed instructions.

He doesn’t get any sleep throughout the night, Jaskier waking up a few times only to tiredly sink back in the bed. Geralt watches him, tries to listen to every change in his heartbeat, to feel for every slight increase in the heat radiating off his skin, and the whole time a part of him is just waiting for him to miss something so big that he’ll be left with nothing but a lifeless body.

It’s only come morning, when Jaskier sits up, radiating less heat and looking more like himself, that Geralt feels his whole being sagging in relief. He wordlessly hands out a glass of water, which Jaskier is eager to accept, then, oddly put off by the silence, he says: “The healer said you’ll be fine.”

Jaskier turns to him with a confused frown on his face. “Healer?” he echoes, removing some hair from his sweaty forehead. “You don’t need a healer for a cold.”

Geralt presses his lips together, crossing his arms as irritation burns his stomach. “And how was I supposed to know that?”

Jaskier blinks at him for a few long moments, then he breaks into a grin, absolutely _delighted_ by his answer, it would seem. “ _Aw_ , Geralt!” he all but yells, brightly. “You were worried! You thought you’d tragically lose your beloved companion, and so soon!”

He _was_ worried.

The feeling has not completely left him, truth be told, still lingering in his bones.

Jaskier is enjoying it a little too much.

“I’ll admit that for a minute I’d hoped,” Geralt says then, drily, careful not let any kind of emotion show in his voice.

Jaskier gasps, theatrically enough that the corner of Geralt’s lips twitches upwards. “I—you—” Jaskier sputters, hand over his heart and his mouth open into a big o. “How _dare_ you, I’m terribly ill, you should be _kind_ to me!”

Geralt raises his eyebrows. “We are in a town, aren’t we?” he points out. He had meant to travel for a while longer, having spent a few long days into too big a city and not having yet recovered enough to tolerate being around people. Jaskier had been complaining about it, lamenting that he wanted a bed and only getting encouragement to be on his own way as an answer.

In hindsight, maybe he was so insistent on stopping because he wasn’t feeling well. Geralt isn’t sure if he’s more pissed at himself for not noticing that he wasn’t just being dramatic or at Jaskier for not being honest about his motives.

Jaskier’s face softens, and he throws a sincere smile his way. “Yeah, we are,” he says, quietly. “Thank you.”

Geralt stares at him for a few moments, enough to realize that no words will come to answer that, panic a little, and hum his way out of it. He stands up accompanied by the sound of Jaskier’s low chuckle turned brief coughing fit. “I’ll go get some food,” he says, heading out before he gets an answer.

He makes a mental note to seek out the healer while Jaskier gets some rest: if Jaskier is going to insist on following him around for a while longer, Geralt is going to need to be able to know his way around the most common illnesses. He’s not letting himself getting uselessly worked up the next time.

Jaskier is not surprised that Geralt didn’t leave him passed out in the middle of the road: he’s a good man, loathe as the world may be to admit it, and he probably would have sought aid even for a stranger.

The experience still leaves him with an unwavering certainty that Geralt does want him around after all, a lot more than Jaskier would have dared to hope. Because, after his fever has gone down but he still needs to rest, for the days that it takes for him to recuperate enough to be able to go back to travelling, Geralt stays.

There are no contracts, no excuses except for Roach being ‘tired’, which Geralt unconvincingly tries to hide behind, yet he stays. He could leave him behind, and understandably so. He doesn’t.

The feeling of being _wanted_ festers inside Jaskier’s chest, and he knows right then and there that he is not going anywhere. Ever. He’s got himself a best friend now, and he is going to keep him.

**Author's Note:**

> This story is part of the [LLF Comment Project](https://longlivefeedback.tumblr.com/llfcommentproject), which was created to improve communication between readers and authors. This author invites and appreciates comments, including: 
> 
>   * Short comments
>   * Long comments
>   * Questions
>   * “<3” as extra kudos
>   * Reader-reader interaction
> 

> 
> If you don’t want a reply, for any reason, feel free to sign your comment with “whisper” and I will appreciate it but not respond!


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